


First Wish

by QueenAng



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Lovers To Enemies, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Wishes, Wishful Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:20:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29704650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenAng/pseuds/QueenAng
Summary: It’s an innocent conversation. Optimus really shouldn’t feel so bad about it.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl (Transformers), Megatron/Optimus Prime, Megatron/Orion Pax
Comments: 2
Kudos: 61





	First Wish

It’s an innocent conversation. Optimus really shouldn’t feel so bad about it.

But Optimus is an expert at feeling bad about things. Things Alpha Trion tried to reassure him endlessly were no fault of his. But Alpha Trion is gone now, just as Cybertron is, and his words are such a distant memory in Optimus’s processor that they barely register anymore.

He’s only one of many Optimus feels in danger of forgetting.

He remembers Megatron, teasing him about something similar, and he _wishes_ he could forget that.

It’s Jazz who starts the conversation. He and some of the younger bots partnered together to create a ‘movie night’; something Spike and his friends introduced them to. They didn’t have any records of Cybertronian entertainment, but Jazz was headstrong in acclimating to Earth culture, and he had an impressive collection of human novelties.

Optimus pretended not to notice that Prowl wrote all of them off as part of Jazz’s “cultural investigation”, rather than an indulgence on his conjunx’s part.

Despite the fact that Spike and his fellows had now moved on to schooling in other cities, the tradition persisted. The selected feature for this night had been an old – by human standards – movie about a wish-granting kitchen appliance.

“If you could have any wish – anything in the universe – what would it be?”

Unsurprisingly, it’s Sideswipe who speaks up first. “A hab-suite all to my _Primus-damned self_.” There are raucous laughs from the Autobots around him, and a snort from Sunstreaker, who’s half-supporting Sideswipe where he sits, incorrectly, on the mech-sized couch. “Oh, and a jar of something shiny for my brother,” he adds, as an afterthought. Sunstreaker’s ego is not so easily soothed, however, and Sideswipe topples over from the couch.

Jazz turns to Mirage, huddled suspiciously close to Hound in a corner, and he answers before Jazz can get the question out. “Bottle of Vosnian high-grade.”

Hound says, “My old recharge slab.”

“You’re all _boring_ ,” Bumblebee bemoans. He sits up straighter. “Boring, boring, _boring_. Tell them, Ironhide.”

Ironhide says, “A vintage F-41 Auto-Rifle.”

Bumblebee looks affronted. “Yeah, well, _I’d_ wish for the whole planet of Cybertron back. Sure beats just a recharge slab, huh, Hound?”

“Technically,” Prowl begins, “the planet still exists. So—”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s magic,” Bumblebee says. “Don’t bring logic into it.”

It’s now Prowl’s turn to look offended.

“What about you, Prime?” Ironhide asks.

Optimus goes still as the optics of all the bots in the room flit to him. He shifts awkwardly.

Before he can come up with a suitable answer, Jazz saves his tailpipe. “The end of the war, of course,” Jazz says, loud enough to turn all the gazes to him. “He’s our selfless Prime. What else would he wish for?”

Ironhide snorts. “Probably right.” To Optimus, he adds, “Self-sacrificing bastard.”

Optimus ducks his helm, feigning humility. “It would be the right thing to do.”

“Ugh, boring,” Bumblebee says again.

“I’d wish for shanix,” says Beachcomber.

Bumblebee turns on him. “That’s dumb. Why wouldn’t you just wish for whatever you want to buy with the shanix?”

In the debate that followed, which quickly consumed the room, Jazz crosses over to Optimus. He’s all smiles to everyone he passes, his field open and warm and encompassing a far greater area than it ought to. He stops in front of Optimus, easy smile slipping just the tiniest bit. “Got a couple questions for you, while you’re not busy.”

“Of course,” Optimus says. “My office?”

“Lead the way, boss.”

Optimus gratefully exits the room, Jazz at his side. He waits until the sounds of Bumblebee’s yelling have faded almost entirely before he speaks. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Jazz says, with a flippant wave of the servo. “It was my fault, anyway. I brought it up.”

They walk in silence for a bit. Jazz is steering them towards Optimus’s hab-suite, not his office. He has a way of herding bots in whatever direction he wished, and it seems Optimus is none the wiser to his methods, because he doesn’t realize until they’re almost outside his door. He doesn’t try to argue, though. His frame feels heavy. He’s sure it must show through his field, even as neutral as he tries to keep it.

“You ever think about changing it?” Jazz asks. “What you’d wish for? I mean, that conversation – it was a long time ago. Things have happened.”

 _Things have happened_ is a bit of an understatement. Their species has neared extinction. Cybertron is gone. Energon is scarcer than ever. If he were less selfish, he could say, honestly, he would wish to fix those things. But even Primes are susceptible to selfishness, it seems. Not that anyone aside from Jazz – and no doubt Prowl, by association – needs to know that.

Optimus remembers the conversation to which Jazz refers. It was his first time meeting Jazz as Optimus Prime. He still remembers the shock evident on Jazz’s faceplates when a hulking red and blue frame wearing a face similar to the little archivist he hung around sometimes showed up at the door to his hab-suite. Optimus had broken down before Jazz had time to process what he was seeing. Tearfully, he had recounted the day’s events at the Council Chambers to Jazz, who had done his best to cheer him up, however impossible.

“Think about it,” Jazz had said, late that night. “You’re Prime now. Anything you want, it’s yours. If Six Lasers was still around, you could go there as much as you wanted. Pit, you can order them to build a new one, even better. _And_ make it just for you.”

Optimus had his faceplates buried in his servos. “I don’t think an amusement park is going to fix things right now, Jazz.”

“You really underestimate amusement parks. Guess you’ve never been to one, though, huh?”

Optimus didn’t deign that with a response.

Jazz patted Optimus’s shoulder. “What about the archives? You love the archives. Tell them the Prime orders more funding for it.”

“I don’t care about the archives.”

Jazz did look a little shocked at that. “Wow. You really are spark-broken, huh?”

“I want him back,” Optimus said, hating how petty that sounded. “Somehow, I don’t think a Prime ordering Megatron to return to me will do much for my case.”

“Okay,” Jazz said, slowly, “but he might just need time. Like you do. Come on, there must be something else you want. Something else you’ve always wanted but could never have.”

“A spark-bond with Megatron.”

“Okay, something _other_ than that.”

Optimus thought – and came up with nothing. He’d wanted to visit Six Lasers, but that now lay beneath a field of rubble. He had been happy in the archives, filing data like a good little clerk. He had Jazz and Alpha Trion and Ratchet, and what more could he have wanted? And then he met Megatron, and everything seemed to pale in comparison to the bright fury that lit his spark. Orion had been entranced from the first moment, not just with the words he spoke – so contrary to everything he had ever known – but with the way his optics seared with red fire in his passionate dialogues. He approached everything in his function with the same fervent ardor. It had been impossible not to fall under the spell of his passion. Orion never stopped to feel guilty about fawning over a gladiator; falling in love with him had seemed like a given from the moment they met, as sure as the sun would rise and the winter would chill.

Jazz gave him a sympathetic pat again. It felt awkward, now that Jazz’s servo barely took up half of Optimus’s shoulder pauldron. “You’ve got it bad,” he relented. “But give it time. Something’ll cheer you up.”

Something never came. His wish never changed.

_You ever think about changing it? What you’d wish for?_

“No,” Optimus says, even though he’s sure it makes him a terrible mech to admit such a thing. “Never.”


End file.
